Reflection on a First Kiss xoxo Lips

I believed my own story.

The perilous love story I’d been writing for us.

Waiting for the feet to become inches,

the inches to become centimeters,

the centimeters to become null and void.

You and I pressed together,

the way I’d never been pressed to another before.

I dreamt of you pink and plump and perfect.

Not perfect perfect.

I’d take you dry and cracked,

ripped and torn, shredded and chapped.

I’d take you. I just wish I could taste you.

Wish I knew whether you were sweet like honey

gentle and mild.

Or if you were salty, from the sweat,

the physics, the physical, the perspiration running from his forehead

down to you.

I’d capture your flavor, if I could.

If I could ever even know what flavor is,

what taste is.

A sensation I can never hold for it doesn’t belong to me.

Was it a mistake to be born in this form?

I should have been a tongue, eyes, teeth.

I could taste, see, bite, rip, chew.

Anything but the lips I am that long to love you

the only way our kind knows.

Pressing, always pressing.

But I remain virginal.

I’d leave my prints, my marks, all over.

Enough to fill a photo album.

Let me be yours,

You are mine.